


Barnes Has A Tattoo

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mario Kart References, Misunderstandings, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Clint wouldn’t have pegged the man as the type but there was no mistaking the soft faded ink that poked out from under the obscenely fitted black tank top Barnes was currently sporting.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 7
Kudos: 215





	Barnes Has A Tattoo

Barnes has a tattoo.

Clint wouldn’t have pegged the man as the type but there was no mistaking the soft faded ink that poked out from under the obscenely fitted black tank top Barnes was currently sporting.

They were in the gym. Wanda was currently having a self defence lesson from Natasha. Clint was hanging off the ropes, splitting his attention between making helpful observations on Wanda’s form and watching Bucky go at the heavy bag like it had insulted his mother.

If Clint was behind honest, he was curious. He had been ever since Steve had come to the Tower with his dead best friend in tow, decidedly not dead. Clint had tried to be as friendly and inclusive as possible without coming off stalker-y, because this was James Freakin' Barnes. Forget the Winter Soldier, Barnes was one of the most famous snipers in history. 

But the man was as much of a ghost as his previous moniker was. He may have been part of the Avengers for six months now; technically two years if you counted all the time Steve had hid him from the world in Tony's New York complex. Either way, he'd been around long enough that he should be comfortable around them, at least not on guard twenty-four/seven. 

He wasn't. Barnes barely said anything even on mission and outside of battle he was a loner.He kept to himself most of the time, retreating to his floor which split with Steve's. He'd come to movie nights and team dinners but only if Steve hassled him about it. Then he'd come trailing in behind the blonde like a reluctant shadow, hands tucked into the oversized hoodies he seemed to prefer over anything else. 

The only exception to his wardrobe, again outside the battlefield, was in the gym. There, tucked away in the far corner, Barnes seemed comfortable enough to shed the bulky layers and bare what was honestly a very impressive physique. Clint often had to remind himself not to drool over the way the man's shoulders and biceps ripples when he and Steve sparred. Flat hard stomach, very well defined pectorals, corded forearms.

So Clint might have a little crush on James Barnes. Sue him, the man looked like a fucking romance novel cover, all long hair and piercing blue eyes. 

This morning Barnes hadn't reached the point where he shed the outer layers so Clint wasn't getting the usual eyeful of muscle he'd come to anticipate but his technique was still a thing of beauty to behold and god was it was flawless. The speed and accuracy the man had when it came to hand-to-hand was unparalleled, save for Steve and Nat. His blows had so much power behind them that even Steve, who was currently bracing the heavy bag, was being rocked back on his heels.

Eventually Natasha got fed up with his half-assed backseat coaching and called him into the ring for a live demonstration of a pin Wanda was having trouble with. “Ready?” She smirked dangerously. He grinned back, showing teeth. He dropped into an exaggerated crouch, beckoning to her with an outstretched hand. She rolled her eyes at his antics while Wanda stifled a giggle.

Of course that happened to be right when Barnes and Steve decided to take a break. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Barnes shrug out of his hoody. Clint let his eyes roam appreciatively over the rippling biceps, both muscle and metal; the impressively developed chest; the thick lines of black ink that peaked out across his shoulder blade.

Wait, what?

The breath was knocked out of him and this time it wasn't the view. He was suddenly flat on his back seeing stars. He blinked as Natasha’s face swam into view, her eyes sparkling with knowing mischief. “Something distract you?” She said smugly, a little smirk twisting her lips up at the corners. Clint felt his neck flush with embarrassment and her grin only widened. Damn her for knowing him so well. In retaliation he wrapped a leg around her neck in an impressive show of flexibility and slammed her into the mats.

His victory didn’t last long before he got flipped on his ass again and all thoughts of the dark haired man’s tattoo went out of his head.

He didn’t give the tattoo another thought until three weeks later when they were all lounging on the rooftop of Tony’s ridiculously lavish L.A. mansion. The billionaire had decided they all deserved some “Well needed R&R.” For some reason Hill had agreed with him and now Clint was sitting poolside, sipping something fruity and ridiculously sweet while he watched his team enjoy themselves. Natasha was swimming lazy laps back and forth while Steve and Tony argued over the BBQ. Pepper, Wanda, and Wilson occupied the deck chairs on the far end of the pool. Bruce was there too, nose buried in a book, and Barnes….

Barnes was sitting by himself at the other end of the pool, looking absolutely miserable in jeans and a hoody.

“I know that face,” Natasha said as she gracefully pulled herself out of the water to sit beside him. “It’s the face you make before doing something either incredibly noble or incredibly stupid.”

“Sometime’s they’re one and the same,” Clint pointed out as he peered at her over the rims of his bright purple sunglasses. Natasha’s eyes were unreadable as she looked him over. She raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “I think I need another bikini martini,” he said, flippantly ignoring that look.

Years of dealing with his deflections and idiocy had given her plenty of practise in stifling sighs.“Just be careful,” she said instead and he knew she wasn’t talking about the wicked hangover that came coupled with too much sugar and alcohol.

“When am I anything but? Responsible's my middle name,” he teased as he pulled his feet from the water and pressed a kiss to her wet hair. Natasha rolled her eyes and flicked water in his face.

He made a detour to the bar to grab a couple drinks and then casually made his way around to the shady side of the pool. He could feel Natasha’s eyes following him. Steve’s too, once he started getting closer to Barnes. Clint didn’t let it bother him and he dropped down into the recliner next to the dark haired man with an easy hair. He took a big sip from one, holding the second drink at arms length as he sipped at the other one.

Barnes eyed the drink suspiciously for a moment, gaze flicking between it and Clint before he reached across with his right hand to take it. “Thanks,” he said softly.

“No problemo,” Clint drawled, wincing a little at the brain freeze. “Although I warn you, they are a recipe for a wicked hangover.”

“I don’t think I can get hungover anymore,” came the quiet reply.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint grumbled. He glanced over to where Steve was trying and failing to look like he wasn’t keeping an eye on them. Natasha was doing it too, however with far more success. Clint stifled a grimace. The man was worse than a mother hen when it came to Barnes. “Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asked. “I mean, it’s what ninety degrees out?”

Many would say that subtly and tact were not strong suits of Clint Barton. It was an opinion the archer did nothing to correct. He was in fact adept at reading people, their facial expressions and physical tells. Barnes was currently staring down at the still full glass in his hand like he’d never seen one before. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly. “I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable,” he murmured. The fingers of his left hand twitched, clinking softly against the metal arm of the lounge chair.

“You’ve been without the hoody in the gym before,” Clint commented mildly.

“That’s…different, I don’t know,” the dark haired man mumbled as he shook his head. The movement sent his long hair falling free from behind an ear to obscure most of his face.

Clint hummed instead of answering. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, swirling his drink and watching the different colour ingredients slowly melt together. “Not really something you can control though, right?” He said finally. He felt Barnes’ eyes shift to him but he kept his own gaze forward. He watched as Wanda dove cleanly into the pool to the appreciative whoop from Tony. “I mean, people are gonna be uncomfortable or they’re not. You shouldn’t change to make them feel better.”

He paused, taking a sip from his drink and letting his words sink in. “Besides, not a single person here is gonna care,” he continued, letting his eyes rove across the pool deck and taking in each and every one of his teammates.

“We all have our scars,” he added softly. “Some are just more visible than others.”

Barnes held his gaze for a long time, the stormy colours seeming to swirl in the bright sunlight. He set his drink aside so abruptly Clint almost jumped at the movement. For a moment he thought he’d fucked it up but then Barnes pulled the hoody over his head. He tossed it away as if he’d be tempted to put it back on if stayed too close, baring the black tank top and both arms underneath. The left one gleamed in the sunlight, reflecting the overlapping metal plates and the slightly darker metal patch where the red star had been scraped away.

Clint couldn’t stop the grin from stretching across his face. Especially not after Barnes picked up the brightly coloured drink and took a sip. His face scrunched up. “This is ridiculously sweet,” he said, holding the drink up like it might explode.

“Yep,” Clint said, popping the last syllable harshly. “Want another one?”

Barnes looked from his practically full drink to Clint’s shit eating grin. The corner of his mouth twitched and then down the entire drink in one. “Bring it, Barton.”

Let it never be said that Clint Barton backed down from a challenge. “Clint,” the archer corrected. “If we’re gonna get drunk off Tony’s ridiculously expansive bar, we should at least be on a first name basis.”

Now Barnes’ lips stretched into lopsided grin. “Bucky,” he replied in a low timber that definitely didn’t make Clint’s chest tighten in the slightest.

“But like, I mean who thought of it in the first place?” Clint sighed dramatically about an hour later. He had a pleasant buzz going; nothing debilitating but his fingertips were tingling a little. He’d somehow lost both his shirt and his sunglasses. He had one leg flung haphazardly over the arm of the lounge chair, leaning backwards over the other one till his head was almost in Bucky's lap.

He tilted his head back even further, squinting up at the dark haired man. “Hey, those are mine,” he said, pointing at the bright purple sunglasses that were perched low on Bucky’s nose.

“Yeah, I know,” was the drawled reply, amusement making the man’s eyes twinkle above the rims of the glasses.

“How’d you get ‘em?”

“You shoved them on my face about twenty minutes ago.”

“Huh,” was Clint’s intelligent reply. “What were we talking about again?”

Bucky snorted and shoved Clint’s head out of his lap. He just rolled with it, tucking his legs up under himself to sit facing Bucky. The younger man was leaning forward, looking more relaxed than Clint could ever remember seeing him. There wasn’t the tension across his shoulders like there had been, arms loose where they rested on his knees.

Clint squinted, eyeing the narrow strip of skin between metal and cloth. There it was again, those thick black lines intersecting into the barest hint of a pattern. The ink was faded soft with age, almost grey. He was just buzzed enough that it took him a couple seconds longer to notice the tension had ratcheted Bucky’s muscles stiff again. His eyes flicked up to meet an icy gaze, guarded and giving nothing away.

“Just ask,” he said stiffly, like he was talking through his teeth.

“When did you get it?” Clint asked. The history books never said anything about Sergeant Barnes having any tattoos but the ink was too aged to have been a recent addition. Did he get it before the war or during? What was it of and what did it mean?

A harsh scoff rasped from Bucky’s throat. “Oh I don’t know, some time between falling from a train and waking up strapped to a table,” he said bitterly.

A cold flush crackled through Clint’s chest and in a second he felt stone sober. Was the tattoo some kind of a brand? A serial number identifying Hydra’s prize asset? “Oh shit,” he groaned. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know,” Bucky parroted in disbelief.

“No, I… I had no idea,” Clint said, scrambling for something to make this better. “Have you thought about getting it covered up? Or removed even, if it bothers you that much?” Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. Bucky’s eyes widened, a breath punching from his lungs. He stared wildly across at Clint before his eyes hardened to ice.

“Bucky, I—,” Clint tried but the dark haired man was already walking away, snatching up his hoody on his way out.“What the fuck?” Clint breathed, tracking the younger man as he shrugged off Steve’s concern and beelined it for the kitchen. Then realization hit like a bullet train. “Oh fuck,” he groaned and sprang to his feet.

He managed to avoid Steve as he came round the BBQ towards Clint. He wasn’t able to avoid Natasha, who intercepted him at the door with a brightly coloured sarong wrapped around her hips. “Yeah, I know. I fucked up. I’m gonna fix it,” he said quickly as he tried to slip past her.

Her slender hand wrapped around his bicep in a vice grip, pulling him up short. Her dark eyes met his, as unreadable and as perceptive like always. “He knows what it’s like to be unmade too,” she said softly, careful not to let her voice stray outside the two of them. He didn’t reply but she wasn’t expecting one. She just gave his arm a squeeze and then let him go.

He caught up to Bucky in the kitchen. The hoody was back on and the man’s shoulder’s were hunched in on themselves. “Bucky, wait!” He called out.

“Fuck off, Barton,” came the weary sounding reply.

“I was talking about your tattoo,” Clint blurted out because fucking hell, Bucky had thought he’d been talking about his arm. Bucky stopped so quickly it was like he’d run into a wall. Slowly he turned to face Clint, his hands shoved so far into his pockets it was surprising the fabric didn’t give way. “I saw your tattoo and I got curious,” Clint continued, slower and at a more controlled volume. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. I should have been more clear and I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Bucky said softly.

“Yeah,” Clint sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” Bucky muttered, his shoulders relaxing a little.

“Yeah, guess I did,” Clint chuckled. He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder as a loud explosion of raucous laughter echoed from outside. “You wanna rejoin the others?”

Bucky licked his lips nervously. “I used to be good at—,” he stumbled, eyes darting around like they were afraid to settle fully on anything. “At this,” he continued with a vague hand gesture. “Being around people, talking to them. I…I’m not good at it anymore. Don’t know what to say or how to act.”

God damn, the man looked miserable. He hid it well but Clint could tell. It was around his eyes.He held a tension, there and in his shoulders. “Well, you wanna steal a bottle of bourbon and go play Mario Kart instead?” Clint offered. The relief in those blue eyes was more than enough. The tentative lopsided smile was just an added bonus.

Over the next couple months, Clint didn’t see much of Bucky. Between his duties with SHIELD and a handful of overseas missions, he was hardly at the tower. When he was, Bucky was often noticeably absent, clearly defaulting back to his hermit-like ways.

It was late on a Friday night, or early Saturday morning depending on how you looked at it, when Clint returned to the tower. He was jet lagged and dehydrated, with a pounding headache that the doctors said wasn’t a concussion but it really felt like someone was playing bongos inside his head. He had stitches up his forearm from a knife he didn’t fully dodge and another row up into his hairline.

He stumbled into the communal kitchen, dropping his gear as he went. He beelined it to the fridge, grabbing a water bottle and downing half of it before he even realized there was someone else in the kitchen.“Hey,” Bucky said quietly over the rim of a large mug of tea.

“Hey,” Clint croaked, voice cracking.

“You just get back?” The dark-haired man asked, taking a cautious sip from his mug. Clint hummed in affirmation, nodding. The movement sent a rush through his head and he braced a hand on the countertop as the kitchen tilted a little sideways. “You good?” Bucky asked, half rising from his perch with a small frown.

“Just dizzy,” Clint murmured, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. “Got my bell rung pretty good.” It felt like he blinked and then suddenly he was sitting down in Bucky’s seat while the aforementioned man was bustling around the kitchen. A cup of tea was placed in front of him, steam curling invitingly. “Thanks,” he sighed, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic.

“Any other injuries?”

“I’m fine,” Clint answered with a yawn, watching as Bucky grabbed a container of soup from the fridge and pulled out a pot. “And you don’t have to make me soup. I’m probably just gonna have a shower and pass out. Maybe skip the shower part and just pass out. Maybe—.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“I…,” Clint stumbled, brow furrowing as he tried to remember. He’d had a power bar in his sniper nest before everything had gone to shit. Then it had been eighteen hours before extraction. Another twelve to get back stateside. He’d had a gatorade on the plane…

“Exactly,” Bucky said, interrupting his train of thought as he dumped the soup into the pot. “Any injuries?”

“Already been to medical,” Clint mumbled, slouching down to place his aching head on his forearms. He sat up quickly as his abused ribs pinched, breath hissing through his teeth. Bucky’s back was to him as he stirred the contents of the pot so maybe he hadn’t heard him and—

“Broken or just bruised?”

Shit. No luck then. “Cracked,” Clint relented begrudgingly. “Three of them. Fell down some stairs.”

“You fell down the stairs,” Bucky stated flatly.

“Well, I mean I had some help with the falling part,” the archer relented. A harsh snort was was the only reply he got from the dark haired man. Clint’s eyes drooped and he finally found a comfortable slump with his chin propped up by his left hand. He listened without really focusing to the soft rustling movements. Then there was a steaming bowl of soup until his nose. “Thanks,” Clint slurred as he picked up the spoon with numb fingers.

He made it through about half the bowl before his stomach started to cramp. It was quickly replaced with another bottle of water, this one slightly tinged pink by one of those electrolyte supplements. “And here I thought Steve was the mother hen of the team,” he teased as he sipped the fruity drink.

Bucky huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement. “Steve doesn’t have a self-preserving bone in his body,” he drawled as he leaned forward on his elbows.“I was always the one patching him up after he lost a fight. After his mom died I was the one who looked after him whenever he got sick, which was often. Wondering if this was the time the chest cold turned into pneumonia because with his asthma it was always a risk.”

Clint quietly set down his water bottle. He could tell Bucky was starting to get lost in his head. His eyes had taken on a faraway look. He was looking just past Clint’s shoulder, intently staring into middle space, like he was seeing into the past.

“I remember one time he got so sick. We were having a really bad winter and his apartment was so draughty. He spiked a fever. It got so bad he started seeing things. Almost broke my nose with all his thrashing. And I remember thinking this is it. This is when I lose him.

“Steve was always too stubborn to die though,” he continued with a breathy chuckle. “And so fucking patriotic. Never could bring myself to tell him I was drafted. He just assumed I volunteered because that’s what he was trying to do and I…I let him believe it.” He whispered the last part, voice so soft that Clint had to strain to hear him.

“It made it bearable, you know?” Bucky continued, his eyes misting over as he continued to relive the past. “Knowing that he’d never know. He’d never have to see first hand what a S-mine did to a human body. Then that fucking asshole volunteered to be a lab rat and the next thing I know I’m waking up strapped to a table in Germany with his face inches from mine and he’s taller and got like thirty pounds on me and—.”

Bucky broke off abruptly, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. Clint kept his quiet, letting the younger man work through whatever this was that had come up. “Sorry,” Bucky breathed, sitting up abruptly. He cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Sorry,” he said again. “I don’t know why I said any of that. Sorry.”

Clint flapped a hand in generic gesture as he struggled, and failed, not to yawn. Bucky noticed right away, rolling his eyes. “Get yourself into a bed before you fall asleep in the soup,” he grumbled.

“Yeah okay,” Clint replied, pushing aside the fact that even his hair had started to hurt. “But…look, I’m not good at the feelings thing and I’m certainly no shining example of good coping methods but if you ever need someone to, I don’t know, not talk about things with. You know where to find me.”

Bucky just nodded, fingers stiff against the countertop. Clint decided not to push things. Besides the exhaustion was really taking its toll. His body felt heavy and ached all over. Even his hair hurt and his head was pounding. “Okay, I need to go fall down on something soft and not get up until the next worldly crisis.” That cracked a soft smile from the dark haired man and Clint counted it as a win. “Thanks for the soup,” he said as he stood.

“Thanks for…I don’t know, listening I guess,” Bucky said quietly.

“Anytime,” Clint replied with a tired smile.

That night Clint dreamed of blue fire and a bone deep cold. He woke shivering and drenched in sweat, a headache pounding at his temples. He rolled over and groaned when he saw the time. Four in the morning. He lay there for a bit and then finally admitted defeat. He wasn’t getting any more sleep tonight so he stumbled into the kitchen in search of coffee and maybe some ibuprofen. He found neither. Stifling a curse, he shuffled his way towards the elevators.

He was halfway into the communal kitchen before he realized he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t expecting to find anyone up this early but there was Bucky, sitting hunched over the island of the communal kitchen. He was facing away from Clint and he was shirtless, the dimmed overhead lights throwing his back into a soft light. Lines of muscles overlapped with thick rope-like scars that wrapped out from where metal met skin. But that wasn’t what drew Clint’s eye.

It was a little rough. Most likely done during the war with cobbled together equipment. The edges were a little blown out with age, the lines thick and fuzzy but the picture was clear. A roaring lion was rearing on its hind legs, paws outstretched. It stood on a sergeant rank insignia, with the words _Pro Patria Et Gloria_ below them. On either side, with slightly cleaner lines indicating newer ink, was a pairs of wings.

“For country and glory,” Bucky said softly, voice low and rasping.

“What?” Clint blinked.

Bucky shrugged his left shoulder, the muscles under the tattoo bunching. “It’s the motto and part of the insignia of the hundred and seventh. My regiment. The wings I had added later, after the Howling Commandoes was formed.”

“It’s beautiful,” Clint murmured.

“It’s old,” Bucky said bitterly. “I don't even remember getting it. Besides, I'm...I'm sure if I deserve it anymore anyways,” he added softly.

Clint wasn’t sure if that last bit had been meant for his ears but he couldn’t just let it be. “Well, the old part can be fixed,” Clint pointed out, rounding the island to stand in front of the dark haired man. “Tony could get an artist to the tower easily. As for the other, it’s okay if you don’t believe it right now. I’ll just believe it for you for a bit.”

Bucky turned, eyes wide and startled and very vulnerable. Clint just shrugged. “We all have our scars,” he said again, struggling to hold the man’s gaze. It was sharp and felt like it could see straight into Clint’s soul. Maybe it was a Russian thing, but then again Bucky wasn’t strictly Russian so maybe it was more like an assassin thing.

“Some more visible than others,” Bucky said softly, eyes far too knowing and insightful.

“Yeah,” Clint said, swallowing thickly.

He really hoped Bucky wouldn’t ask. He wasn’t ready to talk about all… _that_. Not yet, anyways. He hadn’t ever talked about it, not ever. Not to anyone. If Coulson was still….he would have made sure Clint was set up with a therapist. He would have forced him to go, to talk about it. When Clint had had a nasty run in with a cartel about seven years back, when it had taken SHIELD four days to find him, his handler had driven him to therapy himself. Every Thursday and Sunday for three months until he was satisfied that Clint had worked through everything that had happened to him.

But Coulson was gone so that was that.

There were very few things in Clint’s world that were good and that man had been one of them. And now he was dead as a direct result of what Clint had done and didn’t that just take the fucking cake. And sure, he could tell himself it wasn’t his fault. Didn’t mean a thing if he didn’t believe it. It was almost hilarious how he could say that exact same thing to Bucky when he didn’t even believe it about himself.

Clint snapped back to himself as something brushed against the hand he had planted on the countertop. He glanced down, startled to see a mug of steaming coffee resting against his fingers. “Thanks,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face to chase away the lingering blue that was flickering at the corners of his eyes.

“How’re the ribs?” Bucky asked, moving the topic away from such dangerous territory.

Clint shrugged and then regretted it. His ribs ached, having been aggravated by lying on them in his sleep. “Not going to get any more sleep tonight, that’s for sure,” he muttered as he downed half of that bittersweet liquid heaven.

“Wanna see if you’re as shit at Zelda as you are at Mario Kart?”

Clint’s head snapped up so fast he almost got whiplash but Bucky was just looking up at him innocently. “Fuck you Barnes,” was the first thing that had came out of his mouth. Thankfully Bucky didn’t take offence. Instead his face split into a massive grin, a soft chuckle ghosting past his lips.

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Oh it’s on, Robocop,” he growled against the tattoo his heart was beating against the inside of his ribs because damn, he wanted to make Bucky laugh like that again.


End file.
